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“Dude, I’m so horny,” Dave whines into John’s mouth.
That mouth tastes like pepperoni and beer. Mostly burps. Dave isn’t much better. A pizza and a six-pack sits half-decimated on the coffee table, but John has him pinned up against a wall, apparently hungry for more than food and drink. “You’re always horny,” is John’s very witty comeback.
“No, I mean.” The second half of his sentence falls out of his head when John’s knee parts his thighs, sneaks up to the seam of his jeans, presses up. His brain falls out of his head when John’s hands curl possessively around his hips, grind him down. His fucking head falls out of his head when John’s lips, then his teeth, find the pulse point in his throat. “Fuck…” The hand that curls into John’s hair might pull a little. He wants to concentrate. Not that what he’s saying is important. “More horny than usual.”
“I know you had a shot yesterday,” John whispers, his voice so low it makes Dave shiver. His voice cracks when Dave actually pulls on his hair. “Hey. That hurts, dicklick.”
“I wasn’t done talking.”
“You’re never done talking.”
Shots fired. Dave ignores it. “I am hornier than a rhinoceros with a tragic genetic disease causing keratin overproduction. I’m hornier than the fucking Ohio State University marching band, okay, I am pretty fucking horny and if you don’t screw me into your mattress within the next thirty seconds—“
“Did you just compare your dick to a trumpet?”
“A rusty trombone.” They’ve gotten off topic. Dave shakes his head. “Not the point. I need fucked, damn it, just get me in your bed and—“
John’s hands slip off his hips. Run lower. Cup around his ass, lift and separate, come down around his thighs, and Dave’s never been quite so happy that John’s half a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than him, not when he can carry him to the bedroom with Dave’s legs wrapped around his waist. There’s only a bare minimum of tripping, and then John nearly throws Dave’s body off of him, tossing him back-first onto the mattress. Dave loses his breath, gets it fucking crushed out of him when John gets in and climbs on top of him, and the dork didn’t remember to take his goddamn shoes off, has to do it right now. “Happy now?”
“Is your dick in me?”
“I’m getting to that.” The only difference between how they were on the wall and how they are in John’s bed is gravity; John’s knee is back where it was, his mouth licking along the bite mark he left on Dave’s neck, and Dave quivers. “You’re insatiable. I swear, I could do you twice a day and you’d come back for more.”
“Have done,” Dave reminds him. (Good day.) “This is Round One. Keep one in reserve, would ya?”
“Slut.” Okay, that’s one word that can get Dave to shut up instantly. It’s not just the gritty tone, the way John grates it out like it’s sharp and cuts his throat to say it. It’s what it signals, and it signals playtime. “Haven’t even said please. So selfish, just expecting to get fucked whenever you want. Like you’re entitled to it.”
“Please,” Dave says immediately.
John slaps him across the face. Dave whimpers. And when John drops his hips to roll against him, Dave can feel his boner through two pairs of jeans, it’s so obvious. He wasn’t this hard a minute ago. Goddamn does he love having a kinky-ass boyfriend. “Tell me what you want.”
“Fuck me.”
John slaps him again. “What you want,” he repeats, and Dave feels a shiver go down his spine at the tone of John’s voice.
“Please,” Dave tries again, and cringes. No impact on his face. Good. He can continue. He’s distracted, though, because John is pushing up the bottom hem of his shirt, doodling lightly with his fingertips on the sensitive, scarred skin on his stomach. “I want—want you to—“ Okay, yeah, he’s unbearably horny but this is hard to say. “Get your dick wet in my mouth, and then I want you to—to fuck—“ Dave swallows, shuts his eyes, turns his head. “Fuck my front hole.”
“Marxism.” Playtime’s over. That’s the least sexy word Dave’s ever heard. (Part of the reason they use it to safety out.) When John comes up for air after having left a gigantic mark on Dave’s throat, his glasses are a little askew and his lips are sort of bruised, but his eyes are bright under tensed brows. “You serious?”
“Uh.” Dave feels like he’s an ant under a magnifying glass, and John is the sun. “Yes?” he says meekly.
“Shit.” It’s whistled low through John’s front teeth; a gust of his breath (stinky garlic cheese pizza beer breath) hits Dave in the face. “Seriously?”
“Are you gonna keep asking me this?” Whenever Dave gets seriously embarrassed, he feels cornered, and hell if he isn’t going to fight his way out. Words got him into this mess, and words are going to get him out. “Yes. Seriously. I’m fucking horny, okay, I feel like I’m gonna explode, and I want you to violate me, just. This isn’t some seat of the pants thing, I. I wanna try the thing. The thing where you wrangle your dangle into my triangle—“
John rolls his eyes and groans. “Stop talking.”
“Gag me.”
“I can arrange that.” In retaliation, John digs his nails into Dave’s stomach, makes his hand into a claw, scratches down, and Dave writhes under him it’s so good. Playtime’s right back on, almost like they never took a time-out at all. “Look at you. It’s like you act out just so I have to punish you. That’s what you get off on, right?” When Dave doesn’t answer right away, John draws his hand up beneath Dave’s shirt, finds a long, heavy scar before he finds a nipple, but finds it anyway and pinches. Just a little. Just enough. “Answer me when I ask you a question, you little whore.”
“Yes, yes, sir, yes…” This. This is that shit Dave likes; his skin prickles in visible goosebumps.
John rolls his hips against him—boner still there, good, Dave didn’t totally kill it by forcing that little just-checking interlude—and sucks an earlobe into his mouth. “Do you ever shut up?”
“No.”
It’s so easy to bait John, but like this, in this moment, it comes out so differently. Usually it’s just that long, look-what-I-have-to-put-up-with sigh, a quick quip in return. Right now, though, it’s anger. Pure, sexualized anger, and Dave loves feeling it as it washes over his body. “Put that mouth to a better use, then, and tell me what you want.”
Okay, this shit is getting out of hand. Dave already said it. Did he not get it the first time around? He’s going to get in so much trouble for this, but it’s a reflex and he does it anyway, shoves his shades up to his forehead and brings his hand up to close around John’s throat and holds him away so he can stare him down. “Fuck. My. Front. Hole.” John slaps him. (Predictably.) “Please,” he adds.
“We’ll see about that.” John’s hand comes up out of the abyss of Dave’s overly large shirt, pushes it up to his armpits, before he mirrors the action Dave just pulled on him, pressing broad fingers into the meat of Dave’s throat. Negotiation time. Dave will get what he wants, but only if John can control the terms. “You’re already getting gagged.”
“Aw, come on—“
John’s hand slips further up his neck; two fingertips worm their way into Dave’s mouth. It shuts him up pretty effectively, makes even John stutter a little as Dave swipes his tongue over John’s fingerprints. “You thought you were just going to get whatever you wanted without having to pay for it?” Dave makes a little ‘nuh-uh’ noise in the back of his throat, shakes his head slightly. John does not praise him. He doesn’t get praise for doing what he’s supposed to do and answering the goddamn question. “But you want me to fuck your mouth, too. You’re shameless, Strider. Bet you just want me to fuck every orifice I can. Sorry, I can’t exactly get my dick up your nostrils.”
When John takes his fingers out of Dave’s mouth, Dave tries to chase them with his tongue; drool spills onto his chin before those wet fingertips find his nipple again. So sensitive, scarred-over, and John knows, damn him, knows what this does to Dave and he’s doing it anyway. “Fuck my mouth, then gag me,” Dave offers.
“Did I ask for your opinion?” Dave barely has a chance to shake his head before John just keeps talking. And he says Dave can never shut up! “You’re being a little bitch right now. Don’t try to deny it. I was going to be nice and give you the bit, give you something to chew on while you’re trying to think of ways to chew me out, but nah. You know what? You’re getting the spider gag.”
Dave hate-loves that contraption. It’s harsh and unforgiving, yeah, leaves his jaw locked up for days afterwards, but it’s also the most humiliating of all, forcing drool to slide out of his mouth to slick his chin. Best of all, John can get at least a little of his dick past the ring, force Dave to blow him that way. Dave feels like he’s going to spontaneously combust, between John’s words and John’s hands and his own overactive imagination. “Kinky fuck,” he sighs out appreciatively when John starts getting his shirt off.
“And you love it.” Yeah, this is about the part of the night where some serious finagling has to happen, because it isn’t easy for two gangly boys to get their clothes off when they’re both trying to get in the other’s pants and not drop a fat one at the same time.
Dave reaches for John’s shirt, but John’s already pulling it off, leaving Dave skimming his palms along his abs, his sides. (Since when did John get so built? Was it that hammer? It was probably the hammer.) God, his boyfriend is fucking gorgeous in that hyper-masculine way, hairy but not in a ridiculous way, skin browned where it’s seen the sun and a little paler where his clothes cover him. Dave doesn’t look anything like that, of course, but John never seems to mind, always sucking in a breath whenever he starts getting him naked, loving his slim, lithe build, enjoying how marks easily bloom on such fair skin.
“Pop quiz. What’s your signal?” Dave doesn’t justify that with a response. Well, not a verbal one, anyway—he takes a hand away from where it was worshiping John’s muscles, forms it into a fist, and reaches over his head to rap it against the wall. Knock knock-knock-knock knock, every child’s secret code knock from the age of five, except instead of giving the standard two-knock response John just whispers “fuck yes” in time.
“Yes, I actually remember things. I think I deserve a prize for that,” Dave says wryly.
“You’re going the right way for a smacked ass,” John says right back. (Not much of a threat when that’s what Dave wants.) “What kind of prize?”
“Suck my dick.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘you get to cum,’ but sure.” John shrugs, the motion fluid; Dave can see the muscles in his back move when he does that, and his mouth waters a little. “If you want me to blow you, I’m gonna take your hands away. Deal?”
When John actually says ‘blow you’ Dave can feel his dick throb—hell, everything between his legs is throbbing by now. “Deal,” he says, nearly breathless.
“Good,” John purrs. It’s the first praise Dave’s received all night, and it washes over him like a wave of heat, getting him to shut his eyes and enjoy the feeling of it as it seeps into his skin. “Stay.” Like Dave’s a dog. Well… truth be told, he is. Good dog, best friend. John’s little bitch. Faithfully by his side, stays for praise even when John beats him black and blue, loyal to a fault and in puppy love. And even though he squirms like he could wag his tail, he does as he’s told.
He’s not patient, though, and John didn’t say explicitly to shut up, so once John leans over the side of the bed to rummage in his bedside table, Dave starts yakking like this is his gallows speech. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to eulogize myself before you fuck me to death.” He clears his throat melodramatically. “Here lies Dave, extremely displeased, came to fuck but John just teased—“
“Watch your mouth,” John says idly as he plants a hand on Dave’s chest to steady himself.
Dave’s heart feels like it’s trying to jump past his breastbone and right into John’s fingers. He doesn’t even care that the weight on him kind of hurts. It’s an aching kind of pain, the kind he’s used to around John. All of him just aches around this boy, his head (from trying to keep up) and his crotch (from the fucking cocktease) but mostly his chest (because what else are you supposed to feel when you finally get everything you ever wanted?). “Don’t think I didn’t notice your hard-on, douchecock. This really butters your biscuit, doesn’t it?”
“Look who’s talking.” John’s finally found what he was looking for. When he shifts on the bed, his knee digs into Dave’s crotch, and it makes a tingly sort of warmth spread up his spine. Fuck if his shorts didn’t practically make a goddamn squelching noise, he’s so turned on. “Hands above your head.”
“If it’s the handcuffs again—“
“Fuck no,” John confirms. “Never doing that again, I’m not letting you hurt yourself.” Not in ways John doesn’t control, at least. The last time they tried using handcuffs to restrain Dave, the metal actually cut into his wrist and left him bleeding even when he got his belt around his bicep and tied it off as a tourniquet. Scary shit, and John didn’t stop apologizing for a week. “Hands up,” he says again, sounding irritated.
He shouldn’t need to repeat himself. Dave follows directions this time, and John grabs his wrists in one hand, shoving his arms up to stretch above his head. His elbows are at his ears, and his fingers brush against the headboard. “Tell me you won’t take a half-hour to truss me up this time.”
“Listen, shitstain, I have a knot-tying badge. I was trying something new. Nothing fancy this time, I don’t want you moving anywhere.” Once he’s positioned Dave where he wants him, John starts undoing the neat bundle of rope so he can actually use the full length. Oh, it’s the red one, and Dave feels himself flushing a little. He shouldn’t have fucking favorites among John’s ropes, but this one’s thick and not too scratchy and feels… solid. He needs that, the feeling of being not just tied, but tied down.
John starts with looping the stuff loosely around Dave’s wrists. This part feels loving. Gentle, almost. Not like every touch from John isn’t loving, but this is more stereotypically romantic, and it makes the pulse points in Dave’s wrists rise to John’s subtle fingertips. When Dave tries to wriggle, he finds he isn’t going anywhere. “How am I supposed to signal with this?”
“Try it,” John encourages. Dave tries to yank his hands down, but they aren’t moving. Tied behind a rung in the headboard, then. They’re tied together, but he can still clench and unfurl his fingers, and if he twists right, he can still bang against the wall if he really needs to safety out. “See? You really ought to trust me more.”
Because isn’t that what this entire thing is about? Dave is about to remind him that he does, unequivocally, unthinkingly—but that sort of tenderness doesn’t belong in this moment, and he can’t reconcile the sappy feelings he’s having with the raw physical sensations running along his nerves. “Just fuck me already,” Dave grumbles.
John gives him a strong backhanded slap. Dave knows his face will be stinging red for hours after this, and he loves the thought. “This is why I’m gagging you,” John reminds him, and yeah, John’s straddling his waist now and making sure his entire weight is pinning Dave to the bed so he can slip the gag into his mouth.
Dave doesn’t make it easy. It wouldn’t be fun if it was easy. But he can’t fight it as well without the use of his hands, and his feet kick ineffectually at the covers, rumpling them towards the foot of the bed as John encourages his mouth to open with his thumb on Dave’s bottom lip. The metal ring of the spider gag is biting cold, not meant for comfort, and even though Dave tries to close his mouth with it in, it won’t fold, won’t budge. The four spindly legs dig into his cheeks.
It buckles against the base of his skull, a bump on the back of his head when he tries to rest against the mattress. “Good?” John asks in a terse whisper. (This is one of the few moments when he needs encouragement.) Dave gives him a vague, assenting vowel sound from his open mouth, unable to enunciate the hiss at the end. “Good,” John repeats, a little less tense now. “God, your mouth looks so pretty like this. Pucker up, I’m gonna—“
Dave watches, helpless, as John rears up on his knees, undoes the button and zip of his shorts, pushes his clothes down around his hips. His mouth waters—yes, already, John’s cock is that good. It’s beautifully hard already, not at that edge Dave recognizes as unbearable but more of a yes-I’m-here-let’s-get-this-show-on-the-road. It’s good John has him gagged, or he’d start fucking baby-talking the bepis. (It’s happened before, it’ll happen again.)
John doesn’t give him any warning. He shouldn’t have to. He grabs the top of Dave’s head, getting a fistful of his hair, and guides his forced-open mouth to the tip of his dick. The ring’s a little too small for him to force more than most of the head in, but that’s still more than enough, because Dave fucking moans when he tastes precum, licks it away and rubs his tongue against John’s frenum. “God, what a little slut, begging for my dick in your mouth,” John mutters, dangerous and dark, and even the words make Dave shiver. He loves this part, the part where John voices every single dirty thought he’s ever had, the part where both of them settle into their roles and John takes the reins and Dave gets to give up.
Dave hums and John just grabs his hair harder. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he grits out. “If you want a load in your mouth, you’re going to have to be patient.” It just gets Dave to whine, which only makes John pull, and the feedback loop continues as John draws the tip of his cock across Dave’s tongue, getting the head of it wet with the spit already spilling down Dave’s chin. “Are you trying to hump at something? Fucking dog.”
He didn’t even realize his hips had been lifting off the bed for want of contact. John brings a large, hot hand down to pin one of Dave’s thighs to the mattress, and Dave swears the contact sears right through his basketball shorts. It makes John’s dick slip out of tongue reach, and Dave supposes that’s his punishment for being way, way too into this. “I’m gonna fucking ruin you,” he promises—doesn’t threaten, always follows through, and Dave has to shut his eyes as a shudder runs down his spine.
John’s dick leaves a wet trail along his skin as his body moves further down on Dave’s. His hands are hungry, trying to touch at all of Dave at once, mapping every scar—even the embarrassing ones. Especially the embarrassing ones, or maybe that’s just how it feels to Dave. John gets his mouth on Dave’s ear, traces the shell of it with his tongue, and Dave sucks in a needy breath and tries to hold it while John’s lips move down, further down, all the way down his body. “Lift.”
What? Oh. John’s hands are at his hips again, fingers tangling in the waistband of his shorts, and once Dave can actually understand English, he complies with the simple order. As John strips him, he swears he can smell how turned on he is, and it’s humiliating and makes him flush and it’s fucking perfect, is what he is. “Wow,” John breathes. Then, a little sterner, “Wow. You are so easy, look at you, ready to do a backflop for anyone willing to tie you up like this.” His tone is disparaging, and it cuts Dave deeper than any sword, harsher than any scalpel. “I haven’t even done anything to you and look at you. Fuck.”
How is this fair? John still has his shorts on, but Dave has to be naked? Then again, that’s how things work. John sets the terms—including who’s dressed and who’s not. It just makes Dave’s face burn, feeling so exposed already. John’s mouth lands in precise lightning strikes as he moves down Dave’s chest, nipping here, sinking his teeth into the meat of his pec and making Dave flinch, sucking a hickie right next to his navel.
And all the time, his hands work on Dave’s thighs. It almost feels soothing, until Dave realizes those hands are holding his legs apart so everything between his legs is fucking—exposed. And he feels so vulnerable and needy and like he could burn to a crisp and gladly die of embarrassment and this is what gets him off, this, right here, trusting John with this shit.
Just a second ago, John was tonguing at his navel—but—his mouth—holy shit, he’s just breathing on Dave’s dick and it twitches, red and engorged and eager to be pleased. It nestles perfectly in the crook of John’s thumb, and he strokes the entire thing like that before he grinds into it with the heel of his hand. Dave squirms, flushing, but if he could, he’d be smiling right now. (He’s damn proud of that cock, worked so hard for it, and it’s a validating kind of reward for John to touch it like this.)
John doesn’t like the squirming. Shit, Dave forgot about that, but it’s hard to forget how strong John is. He pins Dave’s knee to the mattress, slings the other leg over his shoulder and locks it in by wrapping his arm around so he can rest his hand on Dave’s stomach. Dave whines, somewhere in his chest, when John takes attention away from his dick, but then he screams when John’s mouth takes center stage.
Because oh, it’s hot and slick and John knows how to blow him so well, knows exactly how to swirl his tongue and suck on the head and purse his lips around Dave’s foreskin. Is John trying to drive him insane? Because that’s what’s happening right now, a fresh wave of drool slipping past the O of the gag while Dave moans and his throat goes dry. John comes up for air and Dave yanks his arms nearly out of his shoulder sockets, trying to bring his hands down and force John’s head back down. “Sing for me,” John demands.
That command is easy. So easy. Dave croons when John’s mouth goes back where it should be, and it’s electric and molten and it thrums along his nerves, like John’s tuning him to fever pitch, winding his strings ever tighter. The muscles in Dave’s thighs tighten against John’s neck, John’s hand, and John fucking giggles into his crotch and Dave has to throw his head back and close his eyes to deal with that sensation because if he cums now John will just leave. Leave him like this, open and wanting more.
Every time John’s mouth sinks down on his dick, his chin brushes up against—well. And when he pulls back this time, the lower half of his face is practically glistening. “Fuck, you are so ready for it,” he whispers, sounding almost in awe of Dave’s body and how it’s responding.
The heat pooling between Dave’s legs sears against the cool air of the room, but John doesn’t leave him wanting for long. Two fingers come up to stroke down his cock, keep going, until—that’s—but that hole is—John drives forward with those two fingers, not dawdling around with one, and Dave’s voice cracks and his moan rises an entire octave and he can feel himself drooling onto John’s hand.
It’s been… a while. Years, definitely. It feels different now than it used to, but then again, so much has changed. Shots and surgery and it’s someone else, too, not just himself frantically jerking off and trying not to think about it too much. John’s fingers are dexterous and articulate, and they stroke and press and slide so perfectly. And Dave thought that boy was good when he fingerfucked his asshole. God damn. He knows for a fact this is John’s first time clam diving instead of chasm spelunking but it’s like John’s done this so many times before, and really he has, it’s just. More immediate and the pleasure is so raw and it’s humiliating that this is what Dave wants but fuck it he wants this so bad.
And John isn’t freaking out, Dave could kiss him for that, he isn’t freaking out, isn’t getting confused, just going along with it like it’s normal and it’s so perfect Dave could cry. “Don’t you dare cum yet, boy,” John insists with his fingers knuckle-deep in Dave’s cunt, and Dave fucking sobs because he wants to crest, he wants to so bad, and John just used the one word that reassures him more than anything, used it like a pejorative and a pet name all in one, and he clenches reflexively and John’s fingers move through it anyway and it’s hard for Dave to even breathe like this.
There’s more schlicking sounds than just John’s fingers inside of him, and when Dave looks down he sees his boyfriend one-handed rolling a condom down his cock and hissing at the feeling of it and his heart leaps up into his throat and falls out his stomach at the same time because. Yeah, he’s horny enough to want it like this, but they’ve never done this before and is this going to change things? Of course it won’t, just how getting fricked in the bootyhole didn’t seem to change anything, but this—this means more and both of them know it because the air is heavy in the room and Dave feels like he’s underwater.
John growls, and Dave knows that sound, it’s the predator’s signal to prey that death is near and his thighs tremble when John surges up his body and uses his hips to hold them apart. His dick bumps up against Dave’s for a split-second and Dave jumps in his skin, too hard to reconcile the hard jut of it yearning for friction and the eager drool from between his legs. John’s hand comes up to Dave’s chin, rubs against his three-day blond scruff, slips in the spit spilling out of his mouth, and he forces Dave’s head backwards, as far as it’ll go, before he—
--he surges forward and buries himself in Dave’s front hole and it’s slick and it’s stretched and it hurts so fucking good.
Dave screams at the initial penetration. He howls when John doesn’t even give him time to adjust, just starts humping into Dave with a strange kind of desperation. It’s so, so good when John finally lets his own control drop, lets his body run away with his mind, plays out all the fantasies he’s built up with his words. John’s talking enough for the both of them, even though Dave’s moans are loud enough to drown out his words. Not loud enough to disguise the creak of the bedframe, the whine of mattress springs. (Yeah. Nice, hard fuck.)
“Fuck, Dave, you’re so,” John keeps gasping out, “so good, such a good boy, just like that, clench, yeah—just like—oh my God,” and he drops his head to Dave’s shoulder as he keeps moving in him like he needs to concentrate or he’ll blow early. “Screw it, I need to—need to hear what this is—doing to you—don’t disappoint me, I want to hear it all.”
A skilled hand comes around the back of Dave’s head to undo the buckle of the gag, pull the ring out of his mouth. Dave closes his lips around those fingertips, licks at them, and John lets out the most perverted little sound and Dave wishes he could distill that down and cut it with a credit card and snort it raw. “Fuck—fuck fuck fuck,” is all Dave can think to say at first, the words slurred around John’s fingers.
John slaps his face. (Dave will never, ever get tired of that, even if this one is a little less enthusiastic than the others he’s received today.) “Tell. Me. How. It. Feels,” he demands, punctuating each word with a brutal thrust that leaves him buried to the hilt in him.
“Feels like you—ah! Fucking split my taint open with your dick, how do you think it fucking feels, asshole?” There’s no bite to the words, though, not when they come out high and whining like that.
“Not used to taking it like this, are you?” Dave can nearly taste John’s mocking grin. “’Cause usually you’d be pushing yourself down on my cock and calling me daddy by now.”
“Daddy,” he mocks him right back.
John’s entire body seizes up, his dick pulsing in Dave. His hand comes up to Dave’s throat, thumb and forefinger dangerously close to pressing down on his windpipe. “Don’t do that cutesy shit,” he grits out. “Tell me how good it is.”
“Just—nnh. Tighter,” Dave manages to sigh out before another well-aimed thrust gets him to suck a gasp in past his gritted teeth. “More of a—ahh. Struggle.” Is this forcing his body to do more than it’s capable of?
Maybe not. John rolls his hips just right and hits up against—“holy shit, I could feel that,” John says, and he does it again, and Dave shrieks like a little bitch. Because every time John moves like that, the head of his cock rubs right up against Dave’s joy button and he’s so close to losing it. “Clench, just like that, oh my fucking god,” John’s losing his mind and Dave’s soon to join him. Especially when John drags his hand, burning pressurized touch of his palm, skimming all the way down his chest and his stomach to end at his dick, framing it between two fingers and jerking him off even while he fucks him. “Want you to cum like this, with my cock in you like this—come on, you son of a bitch, I know you’re close—“
Yes. Heck yeah motherfricker, Dave’s been there and didn’t know if it was okay because it’s weird and he needs to ask for permission but now he has it and John’s hips slap against his thighs and everything makes disgusting wet slippery sounds and Dave’s brain has effectively been put in a blender and put on the smoothie setting because he’s being violated in the best way possible and his breath hitches in his throat when his entire crotch pulses, throbs, and his climax hits him with the force of an eighteen-wheeler, an extra surge drooling out of him around John’s dick.
John groans, low and needy, when he feels it, but the second Dave’s body seems like it’s giving up, he pulls out hastily, schlicking off the condom as fast as he can. And Dave doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand, feels empty and desolate while John jerks it over him until he realizes that John’s other hand is pulling his head off the bed and getting it right in the line of fire and he barely has the foresight to close his eyes before John blows, nuts all over his face, hot splashes against his brows and his cheekbones and the side of his nose and one even stringing along his sex-sweaty bangs. And fuck if being used like that doesn’t spark something in Dave’s crotch, a reflexive pulse that just keeps his orgasm going, keeps him from coming down.
Both of them are breathing hard. Dave feels raw in more ways than one. John lets out a little huff that sounds like it could have been a laugh. Not laughing at him, though. The hand in Dave’s hair tousles it, almost like they’re just best friends, weren’t just fucking, and it’s so adorable that Dave snorts a little derisive ‘heh’ at that, too. It takes him a while to get feeling back in his fingertips and toes, and meanwhile his body is growing colder, still exposed while John takes care of post-sex cleanup. (John has a ‘you break it, you buy it’ policy, and it keeps him responsible instead of just zonking out like he used to after a good fuck.)
Still, after a while, Dave starts feeling… icky, for lack of a better word. There’s still jizz on his face, wet between his legs—all the way up to the small of his back and halfway down his thighs, jesus christ what a wet spot. He shivers, goosebumps breaking out on his skin. And he can’t even do anything about it, still tethered to the headboard. Meanwhile John’s just staring at him with this gooey look in his eyes. “Take a picture,” Dave says glibly. “It’ll last longer.”
“Way ahead of you, buddy.” He starts untying Dave’s hands, his fingers dawdling a little longer than strictly necessary along the indents left on his wrists.
It feels good to finally get his hands down. The first thing Dave does is scrub his face off with his discarded shirt. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”
John just does that thing, that incredibly adorable dorky thing, where he bites his lip and a tint of pink comes to his face just at the bottom rim of his glasses. He doesn’t say anything, just grabs his phone from the bedside table and unlocks it before he shows the screen to Dave. “I’ll delete it if you want me to,” he says quietly.
“Are you kidding me?” Dave looks at it closer. Yeah, that’s his face, flushed red with arousal, mouth half-open and eyes half-closed, and John’s load fresh on his face. “I’m hot. I’d jerk it to me. Just. Don’t go around showing that to anyone.”
“I’m offended,” John sniffs, putting his phone back down. “On principle. You should trust me more than that.”
“Yeah, but then there’s that time you sent a sext to my sister.”
“Accident!” he insists, flopping down on the bed next to Dave. “That was an accident and you know it. Okay, this wet spot is—“ He looks up, to Dave’s face, and shuts up immediately and violently.
He’s going to make his mouth bleed if he keeps biting at his lip like that. “It’s what?”
“I just.” Oh. Oh shit. John’s getting awkward. Abort, abort, fuck, this was a bad idea, wasn’t it? “I. You were okay with that?”
“Did I tap out?” John just looks at him, an almost unnoticeable crease between his eyebrows. “Don’t answer that. No. I didn’t. Because that was exactly what I asked for, and you fuckin’ delivered, Egbert.”
“But that’s—“
“Shh. No words,” Dave mocks him, but still, that kid has to shut up before Dave starts feeling self-conscious about the whole thing. He’s already reaching for his boxers so he can get some clothes on. “You just. Caught me in a mood, okay? That’s probably not gonna happen a whole lot. As in, like, ever again. So you better have enjoyed yourself.”
John shrugs. “It was… okay. Different.”
Dave knows what that pause is hiding. “Woulda preferred abusing my chocolate starfish with your battle rammer, huh.”
“Dave, that’s gross.”
“It’s also true.”
John socks him in the face with a pillow. Dave wrestles his boyfriend back into the wet spot. Their stomachs growl in unison, and they end up finishing off that other half of the pizza, kill the rest of the beer. Dave beats John at Mario Kart, but only because John lets him win. And there’s no more talking about it. Because it’s not even really a thing to talk about, just something that happened. And as long as John continues to be chill like he was today, rolling with what was thrown at him… things are going to go great.